


Sideways I Slide

by regulsh



Category: Actor RPF, Rocketman (2019) RPF
Genre: Intimacy, M/M, Phone Sex, sweet service-y sexy etc
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-15
Updated: 2020-02-23
Packaged: 2021-02-28 05:29:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,219
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22728442
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/regulsh/pseuds/regulsh
Summary: It’s not what Richard was expecting. But it rarely is, with Taron.
Relationships: Taron Egerton/Richard Madden
Comments: 42
Kudos: 132





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> this is rocketman-era-ending therapy (shhh)

i.

Richard’s phone buzzes. He’s drinking a Stella in his hotel room; not his first choice, but he’ll take anything to slough off the jetlag and the buzz of the premiere, the last of the big ones, having just finished off the best (or at least, the most readily available) cheeseburger that New York has to offer.

He and Taron have been put up at the same hotel, but when Richard sees his name on the screen and picks up he hears noise from the street, loud voices; Taron’s still out.

“Just getting back?” Doesn't greet him; they don't really bother at this point.

“Yep,” Taron says, then distant from the phone, “ _ouch, fff_ — yeah.”

“Don’t hurt yourself. Party animal.”

“Hardly. Fucking done.” Just the slightest edge to his voice; it makes Richard grin, of all things. “You’re still up, I’m guessing.”

Richard checks the television. “This rerun of The Departed won’t watch itself.”

“Can I come by?”

He takes a swig from the bottle. “Yeah, sure. Six-two-one-nine.”

Minutes pass, Richard’s almost forgotten, before he hears a rap at the door and gets up to open it. Takes one look at Taron, disheveled and dead-eyed in the doorway, and hands him his beer.

Taron takes a grateful glug, sets it down on the shelves lining the entryway and steps past Richard inside, pacing.

“How’re you feeling?” Richard asks casually, closing the door.

“I’m—fuck. Good."

Richard waits, tips his chin. Taron turns and sees it, sighs.

“Everyone’s being really nice. But it’s still just—” Taron scrubs a hand over his face; he looks wrung out. “It’s a lot. I’m driving myself crazy.”

Richard's aware of what people are saying, Taron should be riding high, so for him to be freaking out like this is—

It's not what Richard was expecting. But it rarely is, with Taron.

“Anything in particular?”

“No. I just had, like, _one_ weird conversation and then started spinning out for no goddamn reason. There’s no bloody changing anything. I can’t do anything anymore. It’s just,” he waves his hand. “Out there.”

Distracted, Taron plods back over, reaches around to grab the beer on the shelf and takes another sullen sip.

“Do you _want_ to change anything?”

“Not a thing,” Taron declares into the neck of the bottle. Lifts his head to him. “About any of it.”

“Then what’s the problem.”

Slowly, after a beat, Taron's gaze slides away. “I dunno,” he admits, morosely.

Richard eyes him. “You just wait. You’ll be unstoppable.”

Taron makes a disagreeable noise and Richard takes the bottle from his grip, sets it on the shelves, leans against them. Fixes him calmly with a look. “I know. You know. People will know.”

Gentles his tone, at Taron's mutinous expression, and rubs a reassuring hand over his arm. “It’s really— it’s a really, really special thing that you’ve done.”

As he talks him down, Richard watches Taron’s face soften bit by bit. The slackening of his mouth, his eyes sloping, his forehead smoothing.

“That _we’ve_ done,” Taron corrects him.

“It’s all down to you, superstar.” It's no problem for Richard to boost him up like this, the careful balance of the work done and dusted, now just a matter of managing their morale through events and press and the whole circus.

“No, come on. You’re it.” Taron clutches over Richard’s hand on his arm, his eyes beseeching. “I needed you. Need you,” he says weakly. “You’re the best— the best person.”

Fiercely pulls him in for a hug, which Richard easily returns.

Squashed against him, Taron mumbles, “And gorgeous to boot.”

“Charmer,” Richard teases, charmed regardless. 

“S’true,” Taron argues.

“It’s a weak line.”

“S’not a _line_.” 

Richard relents, strokes down the long slope of his back. 

Taron pipes up against his shoulder, “I’ve got much better lines than that, anyway.”

Richard huffs out a laugh. His arms loosen but Taron’s stay insistently circled around him, so Richard’s stay too, content to hold him for a minute longer. He presses a kiss to his head and Taron gives him a brief squeeze, readjusting slightly.

He lingers, relaxed against Richard, humming a bit, pressing his whole body close to his. Dragging slightly, his broad chest and his pelvis catch against Richard; he can feel it.

Taron’s chin, hooked over his shoulder, goes to tuck against his neck. The small shift sends sends prickles of awareness down all of Richard's limbs, becoming more conscious of his hands around his back. The exhales from Taron's parted lips are warm and even, fanning over his collarbone.

Richard keeps his hands still. “Do I have to go put you in bed,” he asks. It’s a half-serious question. Can’t see his face, wants to check in with him, but doesn’t want to disturb him if he—

“No.” Taron’s voice is hollow. He’s shifting up against him, almost small enough not to notice, but Richard does. 

That boundless, intent energy; to have him spacey and half-slumped in his arms, twitching slightly, breathing shallowly, is— it’s a lot. Enough to make Richard’s breath hitch, too. Enough to catch the accidental twitch of Taron’s hips and respond with a slide of his palm over his lower back.

“Hey.” Richard winds a hand around him, keeping him close when he goes to stutter away. “Hey.”

Taron shudders, just a little. His breath picks up but he's tense and stock-still, now, something like anticipation seizing him. Richard lets his hands linger, turning it into a true embrace, encouraging him. Taron's shirt is half-pulled from his waistband from Richard's grasp; he finishes the job, plucks it free with careful hands and skims one light finger low along his back. Taron reacts like he’s been shocked and Richard takes that as his cue to flatten his whole hand to him, slide around his hip.

“You’re—” Taron gasps, “driving me crazy—”

Richard's hand drifts down slowly to find the shape of his cock and fold over it, teasing and sweet.

“Better me than you.” He ignores Taron’s confused noise at that, gets his hand in between them to work over him properly, feeling him swell and harden and press into it. Taron is restless in his grip but not exerting effort otherwise, still clenching tension in his shoulders, clutching him, breathing oddly.

Richard withdraws his hand, which Taron objects to with a whine, and strokes down his torso instead. “Come on.”

Taron finally goes, sagging full-bodied against him, and Richard gathers him into his arms. He relishes that comfort, well-known but not at all hard-won between them. Embarrassingly easy, always, for them to spend whole long days on set and blink at the end of it and realize they weren’t sick of each other, not even close. Richard’s thigh navigates the tangle of their limbs, finds its way to nudge between his legs, gently slot against his crotch, and Taron lets go in his hold and sinks and presses against it.

Richard situates him comfortably and Taron slouches into it, just gentle rutting against his thigh. “That’s it,” he whispers, low. Richard’s awareness narrows to only Taron settling into his arms. The soft shush of their clothes, ignoring the heat rising in him as Taron chases his own bliss, establishing a slow sweet grind. 

Bright shining star, the world at his feet. Richard knows if he said it out loud Taron would easily turn it back on him, _well, come on, you_. Richard strokes over and over at the edge of his hairline, the hairs there prickling at his thumb, as Taron lets out short little exhales. Grace takes effort, though. He knows.

“Lazy,” Richard admonishes, although there’s no heat behind it. Too much enjoying the heavy drape of his limbs, the sweet pressure of him moving liquid and slow.

Tucks his head against Taron’s ear, intimate. “Can you come just like this? For me?”

Taron’s head hangs over his shoulder, hips moving thoughtlessly against his. “Oh. Oh, yes,“ he sighs, like he hadn’t even considered it.

“Want it. Do it,” Richard murmurs, as he presses his thigh further in between his. Keeps his hands stroking over him, gripping firmly at times just to hear Taron’s breath catch, as Taron mouths softly at the base of his neck.

It's apparent when he comes, one arm winding around Richard’s back and the other gripping the bookcase behind them. Eventually his movements and breaths ebb slower, quieting. He lifts his head and Richard finally gets a good look at him: pink dashed high on his cheeks, his mouth a sweet open o, eyes sleepy and gentle.

Richard closes his eyes for a brief moment at his frighteningly open gaze, then opens them again when he feels a tug at his zipper, a slow-moving hand over his half-hard cock over his briefs.

“You don’t h—” Richard attempts to dissuade him. Taron pulls out his dick and fans his hand along it, pulling smooth and slow.

“Y’like that?” Taron asks, genuine, low, and Richard gasps a laugh as he rocks into Taron’s firm grip.

“Come on.” Taron hikes his hand around him. “Let me see.”

Richard is overheated under his clothes but Taron won’t give him an inch of space; as grabby as he is normally he’s relentlessly tactile after coming, crowding him and kissing wetly over Richard’s neck.

And it doesn’t take him long; Taron tucks his head down to watch as it happens and gasps little stuttered breaths when Richard lets out a _hah_ and comes, shaking.

“ _Taron_ ,” he feebly murmurs. Knees weak, the weight of both of them now being supported by the bookshelf. Richard's head falls back as he regains his breath. Unsteadily, he fits a hand at the nape of Taron’s sweat-damp neck.

Once he gets his voice back, Richard says to the ceiling, “I can’t believe we’ve never done that.”

“I would remember, I think,” Taron says slowly.

They still haven’t moved, at all. They should move. Especially now, that the moment is over. 

But Richard just keeps his hand tracing over the back of his neck. Unwilling to stop just yet.

Reality takes its time to uncomfortably settle around him, insistent, sweat cooling under his clothes, and Richard can't quite look at him all of a sudden. He uses his other hand to hold the edge of Taron’s wrist, turning his come-spattered hand gently, like a curio. “Let me just...” Richard trails off, steps away, dropping his hand and retreating to the bathroom.

He speaks over his shoulder to him even while he’s escaping, breathing unevenly. “Do you want to, uh.” Richard doesn’t really know what the protocol is here. 

“We could finish the movie,” he finally calls out, uselessly. Grabs a washcloth from the bathroom rack. 

It’s probably over by now, though. Leo was brandishing a gun on the roof when Richard went to answer the door. And Taron probably doesn’t— He’s probably exhausted.

Richard stares at the running faucet. “Or are you, um. You must be.”

No answer from Taron. He squeaks off the faucet, his hands unsteady. “I’ll, uh. It's all good. I’ll just see you—”

He pokes his head out, and the entryway where Taron stood is empty. Richard exhales, shakily.

His gaze drops.

Sees one untied shoe on the carpet, then another, followed by clothes discarded along a path that leads to the bed where Taron has burrowed under the duvet almost up to his nose, just his warm eyes peering at him, his ruffled hair visible.

Richard helplessly holds out the washcloth. 

“Now you’re all,” he gestures, “in my sheets.”

Taron wriggles his mouth free of the covers. “Blame yourself.”

Richard can’t help himself, a smile breaking across his face. Taron returns it, relieved.

Crinkles his forehead. “Who said you could stay?”

“Oh, absolutely fuck off,” Taron retorts, and dives underneath the duvet for Richard to uncover him.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Something about Richard just strikes down to his marrow; he thinks he’d faceplant willingly on the floor if Richard sent just the right look his way. 

ii.

All day. All damn day, he’s been turned on. Inescapable.

And press junkets are maybe the _least_ arousing thing in the world, so it feels like a divine punishment. 

No idea why, either, it’s just one of those days where every shift and drag of clothing over his skin is interesting, stirs him. Taron rakes his fingers on his jeans, offers too-tight smiles to everyone. He prays he’s offering decent sound bites, since most of his mental processes are dedicated to recalling the precise heft and thickness of Richard’s cock.

It had been weeks since Taron saw him, since they had last been together. Their schedules are fucked, have been for months; sometimes it’s them snatching only a few hours together in far-flung cities, locking themselves in rooms and retreating to the bed until they‘re too fucked out or one of them gets the rideshare notification to the airport, whichever comes first. 

Once, it was down to the wire, Taron squirming hotly with Richard’s throat around him and miserably watching the little car icon creep closer on the streets, trying to thrust into his mouth and Richard holding him down. Unwilling to withdraw from the sweet heat vibrating around him, and Richard equally unwilling to tip him over the edge.

Richard batted a lazy hand at Taron’s phone. “Those things are never right,” he drawled, dragging his mouth off and teasing one finger at his slit while Taron babbled.

“I’m pretty sure they— computers—” Taron gasped, jabbing his dick back against his lips.

Taron was a heartbeat away from begging but it was Richard who finally moaned, “Fuck, I want—” and sank down over him, hungry, and Taron, now three minutes away from destroying his rating on the app, hammered gratefully into his mouth until he saw stars.

It left Taron swearing and pulling on his clothes and collecting his stuff while Richard watched with lazy eyes like the cat that got the cream – and then delayed even further, fuck it all, when Taron scrambled back on the bed for a goodbye kiss.

He answers a question about his favorite costume after a silence and covers it by appearing intensely thoughtful and invested in the answer. Whoops.

Taron’s mind ticks back even farther, to the first time he and Richard really did anything. When he got turned on by a _hug_ , what in the absolute bloody hell was wrong with him. Jesus. Was he really that hard up for it? 

Something about Richard just strikes down to his marrow; he thinks he’d faceplant willingly on the floor if Richard sent just the right look his way. 

And Richard had been so good about it, bless him. Taron didn’t miss the way he shook when Taron finally touched him, though, how he couldn’t keep his hands off of him.

Later that same night, half-awake as they faced each other in the dark, Richard had yawned, “Please tell me you wiped your hand on your side.”

“Licked most of it off, honestly,” Taron mumbled into the pillow.

A silent moment passed before a broad firm hand slid over his arse, and Taron inhaled, opened his eyes to see Richard’s saucer eyes blinking back at him. “Really.”

“No. Only a little. Was kinda gross,” he responded, slightly breathless. “But I thought you’d wanna hear me say it.”

Richard stared at him. Drew him closer, and then—

Taron asks for five from everyone in the room and goes into the bathroom, unzips and tugs himself out, hands shaking, snaps a blurry picture and types _hard for you_ and sends it to Richard. Absolutely no context, doesn’t even know where Richard is right now. He wills himself to calm down but checks his phone every chance he gets, keeps his ringer on, unprofessional.

What is he _doing_ to himself, he’s got a whole day of press to get through but he takes any lull, the intermittent swapping of interviewers, to fantasize. When he gets fixated like this he can’t help it, keeps plunging himself deep into a pool of memories, savoring it. Thrilling at the possibility of being out of control, distracted, but always reeling himself back from the most dangerous edge, coming up for air. He needs stimulation, as a person; when he gets comfortable, or bored, he always wants to push it just that little bit further, see what he can get away with, using just a flick of charm and a flash of his brain.

And he’s comfortable, with Richard. And he’s bored, with today.

He startles when his phone does eventually ring, Richard’s name flashing, _sorry, so sorry_ he apologizes and they decide to break anyway and he’s off, down the hallway. Trying doors until one opens to a small closet, crooked supply cubbies and a bucket of dirty mop water. The room could be on fire, he wouldn’t care. He gets his cock out and wraps his hand around it, job one, before calling him back. Immediately Richard picks up, Taron greeting him with a rush.

“Oh fuck oh please I’m—”

“I was taking a meeting when I got that.” Richard’s voice is hard in his ear. “You do not give a fuck.”

“Just— _need you_ —” Taron pleads, shaken.

“Hard in the middle of the day, unbelievable. Trying to do that to me.”

“I’d take care of it for you,” Taron gasps, stroking himself ruthlessly. “Under the table, nobody’d know I’m there, suck you down hard and perfect.”

“ _Jesus_ , what’s got you...“ Richard exhales. Taron senses him weakening, pants, “ _Richard_ —”

Richard interrupts him. “Fuck that, I want you here now. Got home and opened my door and was certain you’d be here somehow. Undressed, ready for me. Always ready for me.”

“ _Oh_ ,” Taron groans, leaning unsteadily against the shelves, shoving into his fist. He's entertained wilder thoughts, pumped-up fantasies where distance, time, physics don’t matter one bit; but Richard is there, a constant. “Dying. Dying for you to fucking touch me, fuck.”

“Desperate,” Richard tuts, and Taron’s head slams back. The edge to his voice is winding him the fuck up. “Just need me to take care of you, is that it? Get you off, useless.”

“I’d hire you. On retainer.” Taron can barely get it out, voice dragged out of him. “Be with me all day. Suck me off at strategic intervals, send me off with a smile.”

“I’d do it for free. Charity case, you are. Filthy.”

“I’ll t-take it, oh god—” He’s past all ability to be smart, sweat prickling under his clothes, messy and fractured with it.

Taron moans _fuck me I miss your mouth_ at the same time Richard says, “Stop.”

“What?” His heart is racing, his hand stuttering. “No, you dick, I’m right—”

“Stop, get your hand off.”

“... _Richard_ , what—”

“Well...” Richard clicks his tongue, considering, as if he hadn’t heard him. “One finger, just against you. Just one. Wait.”

He unwraps his hand, aching. He’s a good actor. He can take direction. “Okay. Okay, I’m—”

“Can’t trust you for a moment.” Richard’s voice is so heavy. With lust, with frustration, with a deep-seated sinuous warmth. It makes his head spin.

He looks down, puts the tip of his finger against his bobbing cock. It slips around for a moment and he spasms against it. “I’m so _wet_.”

Richard makes a truly mournful sound. “Want to lick it up.”

Just this smallest precise touch against his swollen head brings everything into focus, magnifying his arousal until it’s huge and commanding, overwhelming. And it’s an impossible task, he can’t keep still to keep his finger against him, can’t even control this smallest bit of contact to give him any relief.

“You better— I can’t—” He’s torn up, can’t focus. Richard smacks his lips together with a pop. Taron waits.

“Five.”

“Huh?”

“Five.”

“Yeah, no I heard you, m’not deaf—”

“Five strokes. That’s all you get.”

Taron’s hips jerk; his finger falls away. It’s not enough. It’s more than he needs.

But he doesn’t hesitate, slides his hand down once, feeling momentous and slow with it.

A second time.

Then two more, faster.

“Just one more,” he breathlessly informs Richard. “And then—?”

“Then you’ll come for me,” Richard tells him, almost careless. So sure. “Do it. So hot and fast, can’t get enough, greedy—”

And he couldn’t possibly, except he already is, his hand moving without his command as he gasps “ _Five_ —” and comes, heels hammering into the floor. It’s wrenching, white hot and violent like an electric arc through him, exceeding his count by far as he frantically works himself through it.

Taron blinks white spots out of his vision, woozy with it. “Fuck _was_ that,” he spits.

“Okay?” Richard asks, aiming for cool and subdued but missing by a mile, his fast uneven breaths betraying him.

“No, christ— I mean yes, fuck— I just. Need a minute.” He can’t stop working into his hand in little bursts, wanting to make it last as long as possible.

“I can’t— I need to be there for it,” Richard begs in his ear.

“You will. You will. I‘ll— you’ll have a long day and come home and open the door and I’ll be there, waiting for you, on the floor, don’t stop, just fall onto me and touch me, fuck me, _fuck me_ —”

And he doesn’t— he doesn’t come again but _something_ happens when Richard makes a guttural noise and comes over the phone, Taron’s cock dribbling in his grip.

It drips on the linoleum, joining the rest, and Taron hisses, steps back as the heavy, heady cloud around him finally dissipates and vanishes. He checks the time; he hasn’t disappeared that long, thankfully. (Didn’t need long, did he, just needed the right thing to bring him there, hot and _desperate_ —) 

Fuck. His cock twitches. He shakes his head, delirious, blurry. “I’m fucking wrecked. How’m I supposed to get back out there,” he slurs.

“What?”

“I’m doing press.”

_“What?”_

“Hour three of eternity, mate.”

“Christ. I have _got_ to keep better track of your schedule.”

“Sure. Nine am, sit for interviews. Noon, come so hard it interferes with your ability to do your job.”

“Nah, you’re great at your job." Richard coaxes. "You’re good at doing what you’re told.”

Taron rankles at the tease even as something in his chest goes pliant, unfurling. He can’t, can’t control himself around Richard, and Richard delights in volleying back. Taron will bounce off him again and again until Richard steps to the side when he least expects it, leaving him pinwheeling in empty space. Like missing a step down the stairs, a deep flip of adrenaline in his stomach that keeps him coming back for more, always.

“I’m facetiming you when I get home,” Taron insists fiercely. “Show you just how hard you make me, you can watch me, show you _everything_ —”

“Stop, _stop_ ,” Richard moans, agonized. “Take a cold shower, you fucking bastard.”

“Nope.” He smacks an obnoxious kiss into the receiver and hangs up, blissfully rummaging through the shelves for spare tissue to wipe up with.

And if he interrupts another interview when he finally sees the picture Richard sent to him, his come-splattered stomach, well, his publicist might actually kill him.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I’m deeply upset about this,” Richard manages weakly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warnings: more porn, some melancholy, lack of water conservation skills

iii.

“I’m ruining your sheets.”

Richard pauses, unsure if he heard right. “What?” 

He had picked up his phone with a grin, expecting to hear about Taron’s flight, maybe a harried update from the back of a car, but Taron’s voice is so relaxed.

“Just got in. Came to yours—”

(Weeks ago, Richard had given Taron a slip of paper with his door code on it. Forced a casual air, explaining, “I don’t have, y’know, a real _key_ to give you, or anything,” and blushed furiously and shut his mouth. Taron took the paper from his hand with careful fingers, before stuffing it deep in his pocket and leaning in for a messy kiss.)

“—and I showered and crashed, but then I woke up, h-hard and the bed smelled like _you_.” There’s a pause, and he hears Taron roll away, hears a deep inhale. ”I jerked off and wiped it on the sheets—sorry, again, and fell back asleep, but I woke up. And I’m,” a luxurious exhale, “hard again.” 

Richard spins uselessly on the street, searching for he doesn’t even know what, before diving into a space between two buildings.

“Keep thinking about you in me,” Taron says, dreamily. “I’m h- _ah_ , have two fingers in me. Your bed will smell like me now, huh?”

“I’m deeply upset about this,” Richard manages weakly.

“Hm. All sweaty now. Gonna have to shower again.”

“Don’t,” Richard says, imagining the clean musk of come and sweat in his intimate hollows and bends, scratching his fingers through his lank hair. “Do change the sheets, though. I don’t want to be dealing with wet spots when I fuck you.”

Another deep satisfied sigh, and Richard can hear him smile at the end of it. “Fair enough.”

“Why do you keep doing this to me,” Richards complains halfheartedly, fighting off the flood of sudden heat, willing it to drain away.

“I’m just horny, babe. Take a look in a mirror sometime.”

Richard bites the inside of his lip. It can make him squirmy, when talk show hosts do it for a glib soundbite, but when Taron nudges his knee against his and rolls his eyes and says _come on, he’s gorgeous,_ it thrills him in a real way. Mostly because he says it in a real way, every time. Means it every time.

“Plus, I know you,” Taron murmurs, right in his ear. Richard closes his eyes.

“The linen closet’s down the hall on the right. There’s some food and stuff around, I think. I’ll be home in,” Richard checks his watch, “two hours? And don’t—” he lowers his voice. “Don’t come again.”

“You mean I have to find something else to do? Can’t just wank in your bed all day?” Taron says, sardonic.

“Well, you can if you want,” Richard allows. “You just can’t come. Not until I make you.”

The strangled noise he hears from Taron almost, almost counts as payback.

-

The door opens to his place as he knows it, except for minor things that catch his eye: an open bag of crisps on the counter, Taron’s shoes at the door, his jacket thrown over the back of the couch. Little comfortable things; he’s here, the evidence scattered like hidden clues among his familiar furnishings. It makes him feel safe, like he’s not going anywhere, couldn’t just grab his things and disappear. Richard has the direct and strong impulse to throw his shoes out the window. He can’t leave, if he doesn’t have his shoes.

He finds Taron lying naked, napping in his bed, his dick heavy on his thigh. The sheets are changed, true to his word, tangled around his knees, but they’re the—

Taron’s awake by now, watching him in the doorway with glittering eyes. “You had silk sheets in there. Are you a secret gigolo.”

“They’re nice,” he defends himself, dropping his bag.

And they are nice, although that’s an embarrassingly inadequate word at the moment; glossy navy slipping against Taron as he writhes gently, stretching, and it’s all Richard can do to stay upright. It’s been truly, truly months since they’ve laid eyes on each other, and Richard doesn’t know when the next time might be, and all he wants to do is suspend this moment, hold it in his hands as long as he can.

“Come here,” Taron orders.

Richard starts undressing. “Wanna shower first.” 

“But—”

Taron leans back and strokes himself, playing with his flushed cock, stretching his other hand behind his head and offering Richard a brilliant smile. 

Richard’s hands slow on his buttons as Taron shows off, a smirk growing. “Incredible.”

He continues to undress as he watches Taron stroke himself, and Taron’s touches get more firm and intent, less showy, his eyes darkening as he watches Richard get naked. By the time Richard steps out of his briefs Taron’s rocking into his fist and breathing heavily.

Richard turns away. “You’ve got things well in hand for a few more minutes, looks like.”

He hears an exasperated groan behind him and starts laughing; a pillow whuffs by his head, laughs more.

Richard hurries to the bathroom and washes up under the steaming spray, hearing Taron’s moans from down the hall, _jesus_. Lets a hand come down to stroke himself slowly, zoning out for a moment. Taron can definitely be loud; the one night they met up, giddy, in London and got way too drunk and decided to have sex anyway and Taron kept making full-throated noises, to the point where Richard slid his fingers in his wet mouth to quiet him, a counterpoint to the ones filling his arsehole that made him noisy in the first place, and Taron rocked helplessly between the two until he came. 

The difference, now, is that he knows Taron is making sounds precisely, purposefully for his benefit. 

It feels oddly, bizarrely companionable, no rush and still shared pleasure, to be getting off on each other from twenty feet away, and Richard allows himself the wildest fragment of a moment to imagine him in his bed all the time.

The mirror’s barely had time to fog up when he steps out. Richard scrubs at it, and fusses with his hair a moment so he looks good-post-shower-disheveled, not just a wet mess, and pads to the bedroom. Taron’s lounging extravagantly, leisurely palming his stiff cock. 

“Half expected you to join.”

Taron skims a hand down himself. “You said you didn’t want me to shower.”

Richard’s hand clenches around the doorframe. “Aren’t you good for me.”

Taron just rolls over.

Shoves his hips lazily into the bed. 

Richard watches the rise and fall of his hips, the sheets framing his exposed cheeks, and his feet move without his knowing.

-

“Please.”

“Mmm.”

_“Please.”_

“What.”

“Fuck me. Harder.”

“Mmm. No.”

“Torture. This is prison. This is hell.”

“Really.”

“...no.”

“You’d know if I was torturing you—”

“Ow!”

“What.”

“You pinched my nipple you fucking dick, you know what.”

“...you didn’t—”

“No, it bloody hurt.”

“How about this.”

“...ah! mmm...”

“Yeah?”

“Oh. Oh fuck oh fuck yes yes, _Richard_ —”

“Hah.”

“Now just f- _ah_ , fuck me, come on.”

“Hah. No.”

“AH.”

-

Contrary to Taron’s protests, Richard would argue he fucks him very well, and for a very satisfying period of time.

He crawls over Taron, strokes his hands along every limb and leaves biting kisses wherever he can reach. From the first aching slide into him, Richard knew he wanted to spend as long as possible burying himself inside him, he’d crawl inside him if he could, the pale creamy expanse of him, hasn’t seen the sun in weeks, open and begging in the slippery sheets. 

Those were his plans, at least, and then he actually sank into him for a few driving thrusts and it went immediately out the window, rocked into him and shuddered and raced up to the knife edge of coming faster than he thought possible, Taron just felt so fucking good and slid and squeezed against him so perfectly, like he knew just what he needed, and he made it a few more stuttering thrusts before pressing his face in between his twisting shoulder blades and coming in a fierce, emptying rush, and Taron not far behind, clenching and moaning as Richard stayed in him, grinding close, sparking his every nerve, and finally shoving into the mattress, hips jerking wildly.

It’s something like an explosion, leaving them shattered and heaving in the aftermath, dead weight against each other, floaty and half-awake for an indeterminate period of time. Probably couldn't be helped, Richard thinks as he exhales, smushed against Taron’s shoulder. No way he could have held out, the edges of his skin lit up and screaming ever since he laid eyes on Taron in his bed.

Taron whaps him off with weak hands, feigning irritation. Richard moves not too far and rolls him over, loose-limbed, skims a nose up the thin soft skin inside his forearm, presses a sucking wet kiss at the bottom of his bicep. Taron lays a heavy hand on his head, and Richard allows the sheer stupid bliss that fate has afforded to crash over him, a deluge of tenderness.

Eventually he rouses, makes his way over Taron and rubs his cock against him with seeking stuttered rolls of his hips, fucking into the sweat-damp crease of his hip and filling his mouth with his tongue, and once he’s hard again he works his cock down and fits it back into Taron with shaking hands, who moans and sprawls like it’s unlocked him.

They fuck the rest of the day away, a grey afternoon put to good use. Their flushed-hot skin and shared breath, miraculous, sunk into the ocean of cool silk around them. Richard gets him over him, around him, beneath him, even sucks his beautiful cock for a few precious minutes, but doesn’t let him come again.

Everything is wet slick and Taron’s mouth, his nipples, his hole are swollen and blooming red like targets, bitten or teased or fucked to that point. An excess of sensation to the point of numbness, but not quite. Richard will hit a spot or find a stroke that jumps the meter, spiking his attention, making him twitch.

Grinding deep, Richard’s plastered to him, again, breathing hollowly against his ear. At this point Taron trembles under him, past spitting and twisting angrily at him for his refusal to drive him to another orgasm. Just boneless, and gasping whenever Richard surprises him with a touch outside of the acclimated fullness in him. A scrape down his side, a stroke around his dripping cock.

Richard lifts himself away and takes a moment to pull out, shuffles Taron to his knees and dives back in, well formed to the shape of him now, the ridged channel squeezing long along his aching dick.

“Fuck me,” Taron insists throatily, a constant refrain, as his legs shift open so wide. Richard obliges, with one long slow sliding thrust into Taron, so well fit to his cock.

“So lovely,” he moans, lazily pumping, the press of his hips and one light hand to his back the only points of contact against his heated skin.

Richard flattens his hand there, strokes a thumb against where he’s splitting him open, wet and sloppy as he thrusts. “Could keep you like this all day. Hey.” He pulls him back to the hilt, listens to him wail. “You want that? Get you on my cock all day. I’ll make you feel good, swear.“

“If I feel any better, I might die,” Taron grits out. 

He’s not— he’s not _trying_ to torture him, he just does things that wring such gorgeous reactions from Taron that he wants more, keeps going further and further and is rewarded every time. It’s addicting, the flush that rises to him, the noises he makes, the wriggling and unpretentious writhe of his body. It was a joke when Taron said it but he truly thinks he’d do it, he’d be a gigolo, if Taron was his only customer.

There’s an answering arch underneath him for the first time in a while, and then another, Taron’s pelvis rising to meet his, finding the energy to fuck himself back onto him. Richard stills, watches him.

Traces a finger along his angry dick, then leans over, caged around him, purposefully not touching, hot in his ear. “Want to come? Gonna fuck yourself until you get there?”

Taron writhes and moans, unsatisfied. Keeps shoving back on to him, his back bowing, face screwed up in his arms.

“Not enough, huh?”

Taron sobs, lost, “Yeah— no— f- _fuck_ —”

“Just need me to get you together.” He runs a hand up, tweaks his nipples again, pinches at the head of his leaking cock until Taron is whining and sobbing into the pillow, squeezing his eyes shut. 

“I forgot how—”

“Shh,” Richard soothes him petulantly, clucks his tongue.

“—you’re _awful_ —”

“Okay?” he teases, expecting a snippy comeback, not for Taron to shudder and moan, “S-so _full_ ,” and Richard shivers.

“Perfect.” He winds his hand under him, fisting his cock roughly. “Just take it, take what you need. So good.” Taron arches back into him, then thrusts forward into his hand, stuttering between the two.

It’s overwhelming in so many ways, but looming largest is the need to come that Richard’s driven off this long. Taron—apparently has plans to take care of that, because the room spins and Richard’s brain breaks, blinks to see Taron sitting over his hips, sinking down on him, slicked with sweat and working himself down, and Richard spreads his legs and thrusts up into him, moaning unbelievably.

Taron leans back a moment on his hands and Richard chokes, skitters his hands over his tensed thighs.

“So good,” Richard marvels stupidly, stroking his warm, strong legs as Taron rides him, nearly bouncing on him, chest heaving. Taron’s head tips forward and his eyes find his, and he gasps to him, “Fucking— do it—” and that’s more than enough for Richard, who meets him with a hard thrust that makes Taron cry out and Richard comes, everything, everything bursting from him, clutching Taron’s hips so hard, all his muscles tensed and twitching uncontrollably. It takes him a long time to gain enough sense to even open his eyes, to see Taron sat fully on him, clenching and shaking.

“I’m—“ Grinding, quivering, mouth agape as Richard gives him a few weak thrusts, scrapes long fast trails down his torso with his fingernails, whispers “ _Yes_ —” as Taron shoots over himself, over Richard, jerking himself wildly.

Things happen slowly, after that. Taron falls over him, shifts to the side and drags a sticky hand over his chest. Kicks his sore legs in the frictionless sheets; Richard rubs feeling into them, long firm passes that Taron hums into, pleased. Richard holds him, feeding him gentle lush kisses that make Taron arch, not desperate, but like he detested the absence of Richard’s mouth. It sends a shiver of satisfaction through him.

They eventually quiet, and slow, and Taron pulls away, muscles slack and heavy, a reassuring weight next to Richard as he throws an arm over his torso. Richard flutters the sheet down, a large shining butterfly wing over them, to doze.

-

Waking again, together; deciding to shower. They alone might drive LA into another drought.

The steam and heat rises coaxingly around them as the bathroom warms, unable to stop touching each other with sleepy, come-drunk hands. Taron slumps in his arms and Richard tends to him, gently sweeping his hands over dripping wet skin before stroking idly and soap-slippery over his hole, playing with him until Taron moans at him _I can’t, I can’t_ but Richard says hotly _I know you can, give it to me_ so he clings to Richard and does, his aching abused dick hot in Richard's grip as he spurts weakly.

Taron is limp, hazy and smiley as he nuzzles the edge of his jaw against Richard's shoulder. Richard feels similarly happy and weak, and lets the feeling slip even deeper when Taron attends to him, washes him, obedient under the spray. Rubs too much Aesop in his hair.

Taron skates a lazy hand down to touch him and Richard says, “No, just—”

Butts his hand back up to his head, sheepish. “Just—”

Taron’s hand gently slips through his hair, scratching a little, then tightens in it. “Yeah?” 

Richard’s breath comes faster, his cock twitching as Taron’s curious hand finds it.

“I think you’re a liar.” One hand taut in his hair, the other unrelenting around his dick, mouth ghosting against his.

“Never,” Richard says, and shivers when he comes.

Taron thumbs at his neck. “I like taking care of you,” he says thoughtfully, after several long moments, and Richard nearly falls over, abruptly weak at the knees.

“I—” Richard’s struck dumb, unable to speak, fingers tripping at the base of his neck, and Taron just gazes at him serenely.

With careful fingertips, Taron rakes back his hair away from his face, leans up for a polite kiss. Blinks water from his pretty, spiky lashes.

“Do you have another set of those sheets?”

Richard rolls a hand down his slippery muscled back. “Just the one.”

Taron’s obviously put out. “Let’s postmates some.”

“If I postmates a single set of silk sheets to my door, I’m definitely getting arrested.” 

“Get some snacks too, then,” murmurs Taron, kissing him absently. “Throw off the authorities.”

Richard would risk jail for Taron, no question.

-

They sit on the couch and drink the last two beers in the back of his fridge. Almost don’t want to touch, so glutted on each other after so long, the edges of their skin fuzzy and overused, but Taron’s toes still nudge at his on the coffee table and his heart swells.

“I wasn’t kidding about the food. Fucking starving,” Taron moans.

Richard was too. Didn’t even realize.

He tips his bottle towards the blank flat screen across from them. “Do you wanna watch?”

Taron tucks his legs up, wriggles his cold toes under Richard's thigh. “Nah. I’ll catch up later.”

(Days ago, when Richard asked, Taron said grandly on the phone, “No plans. Why would I have?” 

Trying to be kind, trying to be helpful, and then abandoning that pretense and deciding to be selfish, Richard said, “Come to mine.” 

“Okay,” Taron said, so quiet. “Yes.”)

“How’re you feeling.”

“Dunno,” Taron muses, distantly. “I think I’ve gone through it and come around the bend so many times, at this point I’m just—” He shrugs. “I feel like Buddha.” Swirls one hand in the air. “Enlightened.”

Richard observes him: patient and pale in the gloaming, the edges of his hair lit from the last of the evening light through the window. Resting the cool circle of his beer bottle on his stomach. The rain has let up, the sun setting and peeking through the clouds and trees and buildings outside. The whole world gently gilded but damp, and quiet, waiting for night to fall.

Taron’s eyes are closed as he breathes out, so slow, “I could do this forever.”

Unhurried, his eyes flutter open and his gaze finds Richard’s, soft and calm. Richard looked at him and saw in his eyes a universe of understanding; that it wouldn’t, and that it could. 

That they’ve been caught in a weird, nearly year-long orbit, and then longer than that, and yet Taron wanted to keep seeing him. Didn’t mind this bit of the whole thing, when it was their jobs, and then when it became abruptly more than that. 

But that their lives are what they are. That time might pull them together, or apart, might stretch this dense golden moment over the rack of the ensuing months and years until it was gossamer thin, and then maybe even invisible. Reduced to calendar reminders, and _oh yeah we know each other we did that thing together_. Just-sometimes-occasional acquaintances.

But it was impossible for Richard to think that way, it did not compute, what with their body heat still warming the mattress, the sweat-stained silk sheets, their shoes tangled at the door. Taron's face reassuring and open, like a tulip in bloom.

Richard curls a hand over his ankle bone, shifting his thumb over it. 

“I think so, too.”

Taron’s eyes slip closed again, satisfied.


End file.
